


Intelligent Gatherings

by silveradept



Category: Final Fantasy XII, Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Gen, Walk Into A Bar
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-04
Updated: 2018-05-04
Packaged: 2019-05-02 00:12:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,134
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14532453
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/silveradept/pseuds/silveradept
Summary: Harold Finch has information about the visit of Queen Ashelia, and has to go into a pub full of (association) football fans to deliver it.





	Intelligent Gatherings

Harold did not like bars, as a rule. He felt that places whose mode of business was to serve already-belligerent customers alcohol and expose them to the closest thing the United States had to gladitorial combat was the sort of thing that would result in widespread violence all over the city. He'd asked the Machine about it once, as a calibration question, and it had given him the equivalent of a shrug. Alcohol, it reasoned, inflamed passions, but it also took away the ability of many of those same inflamed persons to do anything about it. The Machine had confidently predicted a much higher incidence of fatalities due to automobile collisions, instead.

"Why am I the one making this contact?" Harold said softly to no person in particular.

"Because, Harold, you and the kid probably have a lot more in common than any of us." John's voice in his ear was reassuring in a small way. If trouble should break out, there would be someone quickly on the scene who knew how to handle it.

"I hardly think that's the case," Harold said, moving further into the bar to try and spot the person he was supposed to meet.

"I agree with John," Root's voice said in his ear. "You're both loners who have teenage crushes on beautiful, powerful women and a desire to prove yourself by doing something grand and heroic."

"The only difference is that you have about thirty years' of practice doing just that." John finished.

"The Machine is not..." Harold started. In retrospect, he shouldn't have worried that his contact was going to be difficult to see. The young man was dressed in the bright fashion of the Dalmascans, which made him stand out, even among what appeared to be rival association football clubs watching a match on the bar's largest screen.

"Hello," Harold said as he approached. "It looks like the football game is going to be interesting."

"You almost sounded convincing, Harold," John quipped in his ear.

"Don't care," the young man said, and Harold followed his gaze to one of the screens across the bar, where Queen Ashelia B'nargin Dalmasca was addressing the United Nations. There was no sound from the television, but it was clear from the young man's demeanor that John had been correct about his interest in her.

"It's rare to see someone from Dalmasca away from the Queen," Harold tried again. "I'm looking for someone who can pass along a message to her."

The young man turned to look at Harold, ready to give him a piece of something, but whatever remark he had in mind died away at recognizing him. Harold took a seat at the bar, and ordered a ginger ale to drink. 

"Hello," the young man said carefully, and significantly more politely than before. 

"Hello," Harold replied. "To whom do I have the pleasure of speaking?"

"I'm Basch fon Ronsenburg of Dalmasca," he said. Harold frowned as both John and Shaw smothered laughter so as not to assault his eardrum.

"I highly doubt that," Harold said, "given that Basch fon Ronsenburg has significantly more experience and age than you appear to. And also because he is not alive."

"Shows what you know," the young man said with a snort. Harold knew quite a deal more about Basch than that, more than enough to easily refute the young man's claims, but none of that was important to his mission.

"I have to get a message to the Queen," Harold said. "Her life is in danger while she is here in New York."

"Tell me something I don't already know," the young man said. "Everyone in that group has been practicing and preparing for the possibility that something might happen, while I sit here in a bar and watch while someone twice my age tries to convince me he's got information about a plot."

Harold realized he wasn't getting anywhere with trying to be directly convincing. He followed the young man's gaze again and decided on a different tactic to try.

"She reminds me of someone I lost," Harold said. "Quite beautiful, but our work eventually drove us apart. It's difficult, having someone in your life that you want to say so many things to, and to keep near you, but you can't."

That seemed to resonate with the young man. 

"Unless someone you like a lot goes off and becomes the queen of a country, I don't think you and I have had the same experiences."

"Certainly not," Harold replied. "But one of us kept getting more involved with secrets and lies, which made it impossible for us to conduct an honest and loving relationship."

The young man seemed to think about that for a moment. 

"So you think I should tell her what I feel?" 

"I think that you know better than I do what your feelings are, and when it would be appropriate to tell her. Or not." Harold shrugged, still looking at the screen with Queen Ashelia. "I have information for you. But I also have a wager for you."

The young man shrugged. "I don't bet much. I leave that to other pirates who have money to lose."

"That sounds very smart," Harold said, testing the flattery a little more. "To convince you of my information, I'm going to predict the future for you. My information source says someone will score a goal in this association football game in the next two minutes. Exactly one minute after that, the cameras will pan away from the field and the commentators will remark that there is a naked man on the field, whom they refuse to show.. It will take five minutes to restore order, after which you will call me at this number." Harold slid a business card over to the young man, and then left a five dollar bill on the bar counter as he got up to leave. 

The shouts from inside the bar as Harold left told him what he needed to know about the goal part of his prediction. Now all there was to do was to wait for the phone call. 

"Good work, Vaan," said one of the middle-aged football hooligans to the young man. "I'd call that a successful contact."

"I can't understand why anyone would want to take their clothes off and run around on a sports field, Balthier," Vaan said.

"Alcohol makes people do all sorts of strange things, Vaan," Balthier said, clapping him on the shoulder. "Fran has all sorts of stories about what happens when men and alcohol get together."

"So when do we call 'Harold Finch'?" Vaan seemed unimpressed with the name on the business card.

"In about ten minutes," Balthier replied. "It wouldn't do us any good to stay exactly on his timetable, now would it?"


End file.
